


Ad Hoc

by Ataraxetta



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-18 13:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8162822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ataraxetta/pseuds/Ataraxetta
Summary: Ignis/Noctis centered ficlet collection.1. Kisses because I don’t want you to go and maybe I can convince you to stay just a few minutes longer.2.  ‘We might die tomorrow’ kiss.3a. Based on the TGS 2016 trailer. Noctis is captured and tortured by Ardyn. His friends find him in the aftermath.4. Ifrit informs Ardyn that the King of Light has been anointed





	1. One More Kiss

**Kisses because I don’t want you to go and maybe I can convince you to stay just a few minutes longer**

“Noct, I have to - mmf - ”

It’s terribly rude to cut someone off mid-sentence. Ignis should reprimand Noctis. He definitely shouldn’t be sighing into his distractingly lush kiss or trying to follow it back down into bed where Noctis is trying to drag him. Ignis breaks away and tries to catch his breath. He’s showered, dressed, respectable. He has duties to attend to. He certainly doesn’t have time for Noctis sleep-mussed and gorgeous and inviting in his bed.

“Noct,” he says, trying to look stern. “I have to go.”

“No, no,” Noctis says, voice breathy and so warm. He’s so warm, sleepy and sweet and generous in a way he only ever is when he’s trying to get his way. “You have to stay. I need you here.”

“You had me here,” Ignis reminds him.

“Not the same,” Noctis argues. He strokes the hair just behind Ignis’s ears and cups his jaw, sitting up to meet his lips again. Between soft, chaste, impossibly sexy little kisses he says, “Technically you had me. Now I need to have you. S'only fair.”

“Some of us have a job, Your Highness,” Ignis reminds him. His hands are in Noctis’s hair again. He doesn’t remember authorizing them to do that.

“ _I’m_ your job,” Noctis says. Mumbles. His mouth is busy on Ignis’s jaw, on his throat, tip of his clever tongue grazing just above the mythril chain of his necklace, making Ignis shiver. “Advisor to the Crown Prince. That’s your title. Your job is to take care of me. I need you to take care of me, Iggy.”

Ignis snorts a laugh and Noctis’s mouth finds his again. He nibbles Ignis’s bottom lip plush and red, and sneaky fingers start pulling at Ignis’s shirt to untuck it but Ignis knows that trick by now. He snatches Noctis by the wrists and guides his hands away from his trousers and ignores Noctis’s pleased moan (he loves to be held down).

“Brat,” Ignis says, wishing he sounded less fond.

Noctis wets his lips and grins, sitting up in bed with the bedclothes sliding tantalizing further and further down his body until one sharp hipbone is revealed, the little mark in the hollow that Ignis put there with his mouth last night visible even in shadow.

“Ignis,” Noctis says. He tugs one hand free from Ignis’s loose hold to cup his cheek and by instinct Ignis turns to kiss his palm. “ _Ignis_. Stay just a little longer.”

“Noct.”

“One more kiss?" Noctis asks hopefully. "Just one more.”

Ignis has meetings to attend, he has to drive all the way to the palace, and traffic is always terrible this time of morning, and…

Ignis sighs. “One more kiss.”


	2. When Tomorrow Comes

**'We might die tomorrow' kiss**

The lights in the caravan aren’t great, but there’s clean water, a shower, medicine from the station next door, and a pullout bed in the back which had been a lot easier to help Ignis onto than it would’ve been one of the bunks. Ignis is still trembling all over - the poison was slow-acting but it’s slow to heal, too. His fever has finally broken but the angry gash on his stomach is still puffy with infection, black veins of poison no longer spread over most of his torso but receding at a snail’s pace from the antidote.

“Noct, I really am fine,” Ignis says, in that tone he uses when Noctis is acting in a way he doesn’t know how to respond to, when he thinks Noctis needs to calm down.

Noctis is perfectly fucking calm, thanks. 

His hands aren’t even shaking anymore, though the mist-blue of his magic is visible around them. He can feel it roiling within him like a storm. One of his own is hurt (this one, who’s always been by his side), and there’s an urgency to fix, heal, make whole again. An impotent urgency at the moment - he can’t close the wound until the infection is gone.

“Noct,” Ignis repeats, gently.

“You shouldn’t be talking,” Noctis tells him. “You’re weak.”

Just hours ago Ignis was nearly catatonic, writhing in pain, fever so high his brains could’ve fried, Noctis’s name coming off his lips cracked and broken in a whispered mantra. He’s still weak as a kitten now, whiter than the sheets beneath him. His smile is small, genuine, feels like a holy experience and a punch straight to the gut at the same time to see. He says, “So you talk.”

Noctis snorts, shaking his head. If they’d been even a little further away from the gas station, if that daemon had decided to follow them, Ignis would be dead. If his reflexes weren’t so well-honed he’d have been torn in half instead of just torn into. Noctis is going to be hearing the agonized scream Ignis had tried to hold back for the rest of his life. He’s never been good with words, and this feels too big to put them to, so he says, “Sorry we missed your meteor shower.”

“Mm,” Ignis replies. His voice is a little slurred and he’s blinking slowly, exhausted. “Me too. This isn’t exactly the romantic date I was going for.”

He’s joking. Maybe. It’s hard for Noctis to tell. Sometimes the way Ignis looks at him… But maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Noctis’s magic binds them, but Ignis is still so hard for him to read. Their minds have always worked on different, if complementary, planes.

“Idiot,” Noctis says, just to make Ignis smile again. Ignis shifts and stills immediately with a sharp inhale, his eyes clenching closed as he forces himself to breathe deeply through the pain. They don’t open again until Noctis has scooted closer on the side of the bed to push sweat-damp hair from his furrowed brow. Noctis offers an attempt at a grin. “Yeah, bunch of shooting stars not really worth the almost dying, huh?”

“No, not the stars.” Ignis sighs, gazing up at him thoughtfully. “You though, completely.”

Noctis’s hand freezes where he’s still carding his fingers through Ignis’s hair. He swallows hard, certain it must be audible squeezing past the lump in his throat. “You almost died. You could have. Ignis.”

“I’m okay,” Ignis says. He fumbles for Noctis’s hand and Noctis threads their fingers together. Their foreheads touch. Noctis doesn’t remember leaning so close. Ignis’s hand squeezes his. “I’m really okay.”

“But you almost weren’t.”

It’s always been a risk, life at the royal family’s side. It’s more of one now with the Empire actively looking for him. There’s a greater chance than there’s ever been that any of them might die tomorrow.

When their lips touch Ignis squeezes Noctis’s hand. Noctis’s magic flickers between them, awake, wanting, part of him, part of them. There’s a chance Ignis won’t remember any of this tomorrow.

There’s a chance he might.


	3. Bleeding Out: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the TGS 2016 trailer. Noctis is captured and tortured by Ardyn. His friends find him in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These next few chapters are just shameless self-indulgent hurt/comfort. I have no other excuse I'm sorry. Please heed warnings in the tags!

They find Noctis pinned like a butterfly over the open maw of the crystal.

“Oh god,” Prompto breathes, sounding ill. The entire chamber smells awful, like burning meat and blood and waste.

“Two guards. Why is no one else here?” says Cor. “Why did they leave him? Why would they abandon the crystal?”

“Who cares?” Gladio replies, disrespectful, angry, anguished.

It’s white noise in Ignis’s ears; he has eyes only for Noctis. He sidesteps the bloody bodies of two Niflheim guards and approaches the crystal. It’s brilliant bright red with magic. The glow makes Noctis a slumped shadow in a tangle of holy light, so Ignis catches glimpses of him in pieces: a lax hand turned dripping blood from a frail wrist torn up by the shackle around it, black bruises on a bare chest, deep and infected lacerations over diminished abs, bare legs and torn up ankles, a shock of greasy black spikes of hair, a cheek so pale the veins beneath the skin are stark, sore chapped lips parted.

The full picture, once Ignis is close enough to see it, is too much to take in. He doesn’t have the capacity to acknowledge Noctis in this state and remain lucid, let alone helpful, so he files it away to be dealt with later and closes the distance between himself and his prince, ignoring the way it feels like his chest is caving in. Noctis is conscious, and Ignis gets the feeling that he has been for some time. He flinches when Ignis’s fingers graze his hair.

“Noct,” Ignis breathes.

Ashy eyelashes flutter. Noctis’s face is dirty and streaked from sweat and tears. He and the crystal are both dripping wet. Ignis looks back around at the twisted bodies of the guards and the remains of a high pressure water hose on the steel grating next to them. Gods, how long has Noctis been chained here?

“Noct, can you hear me?” Ignis asks.

Noctis is too weak to lift his head but when his eyes open they’re glowing bloody red like the crystal. Ignis can’t hear anything past his heart pounding, the blood roaring in his ears. He can tell the moment Noctis focuses on him, recognizes him. Noctis’s raw lips part to form Ignis’s name and his face blanches with fear and disbelief. Ignis eyes prickle painfully.

“Oh fuck,” Prompto says from somewhere behind him. As he steps up closer his wide eyes lock onto the bloody bruises around the shards of something shoved beneath Noctis's fingernails, hands turned to claws in shadow on the face of the crystal. “Oh god, Noct, holy shit, what did they do to you?”

“There will be keys on one of the guards,” Cor says. He's regarding Noctis’s brilliant eyes with a grim look. Ignis meets his gaze momentarily, understanding shared between them. Noctis can’t lift a finger right now, but there’s a power in him now that’s frightfully dangerous. To the others, Cor says, “Niflheim got what they wanted from him. He was left here for us.”

“Why’d they take his clothes?” Prompto asks, coming up on Cor’s other side with a ring of keys.

“So they could fucking hose him down like an animal,” Gladio growls. He has no poker face. His fury, fear and upset are clear in every feature.

“Fuck,” Prompto says again. “Gods, he’s really hurt.”

That much is obvious. Ignis clears his throat and Noctis’s hazy gaze swings back to him. “Noct, do you know who I am?”

It takes Noctis a long time to react. His tongue swipes across his dry lips slowly. “‘nis,” he answers. His voice is nothing, less than a whisper. With monumental effort he manages to lift his chin from his chest and rest his cheek on the arm stretched painfully above his head instead so he can see them all better. To Ignis, he says, “’…real?”

Gladio makes an angry sound at Ignis’s side, but doesn’t say anything. Ignis nods slowly and keeps his voice calm. “Yes, we’re real. We’re going to get you down, all right?”

“Yeah,” Noctis agrees. He blinks slowly at Gladio, who steps up a bit closer after taking the keys from Prompto.

“This is gonna hurt, kid, I’m sorry,” he says.

“S'okay,” Noctis says.

He hardly makes a sound as Gladio and Cor unlock the steel shackles from his wrists and ankles, though his breathing goes harsh and sharp. Ignis supports most of his weight as Prompto carefully frees and lowers his arms. Gladio swears when he catches sight of Noctis’s back, color draining from his cheeks. Ignis isn’t at an angle where he can see but Niflheim’s interrogation methods are no secret. Since there’s nowhere safe to lower him onto the floor, Ignis exchanges his awkward grip on Noctis for Gladio’s powerful arms. Noctis’s eyes are still open in a pained wince and he pants softly for breath, tears spilling down his face as feeling returns to his limbs. He rolls his head on Gladio’s chest and when he catches sight of the bodies on the ground his fingers twitch on his belly where they’re resting and he clenches his eyes shut. “No, no.“

“Hey, listen to me,” Gladio says. Cor and Prompto are both shrugging out of their jackets to put securely over Noctis’s frail body, and Ignis brushes lank hair from his eyes as he opens them again. Gladio tries for a reassuring smile and only falls a little short. “We’re getting you out of here. You’re gonna be just fine, okay?”

Noctis turns his face into Gladio’s chest and trembles.

 

*

 

Outside, they try to heal him.

Potions roll off him like water on oil, and when Ignis tries a cure spell Noctis screams in breathtaking agony as soon as the magic touches him, breaking off into a choked moan when a seizure takes him, his eyes rolling back in his head and body convulsing. It doesn’t last long, but it leaves Noctis even more exhausted and run down than he already was, curling into Ignis and clutching weakly at his jacket.

"No magic,” Gladio says in a faint voice.

“No magic,” Ignis and Prompto agree together.

Noctis’s injuries are serious, but not life-threatening, at least not if left untreated. He’s been beaten but not as badly as he could have been, messy bruises on his flank, legs, and arms, and cracked ribs on his right side, all injuries consistent with putting up a struggle and being contained. In contrast the evidence of slow, methodical torture can’t be mistaken for anything else. Whatever Ardyn Izunia had wanted from Noctis, he had wanted it very badly.

The open wounds are what concern Ignis. The two deep lacerations on Noctis’s abdomen are already showing signs of infection, as are the abused nail beds on his right hand. His wrists and ankles have been shredded by the restraints that had held them, and the soles of his feet have been sliced open. The extent of the damage done to his back remains, for now, uncertain; they can’t see very much through the blood.

“We need to get out of here,” Cor tells them.

Ignis blinks up at him, wincing in the sunlight. Cor’s voice is even and his expression is blank, but he can’t tear his eyes off Noctis, either. Not for the first time, Ignis wonders what he’s thinking, if he’s still comparing Noctis to the late king in his mind, if it hurts him to see this man he helped raise made to suffer like this. It feels like assessing a threat; Ignis knows that Cor cares about Noctis, he just doesn’t know if he cares more about Lucis, and until he finds out Ignis can’t trust him completely.

“Agreed,” Ignis says. Prompto is fussing over Noctis, bent over him so his hair tickles Ignis’s chin and talking quietly. He backs off and swings up out of his crouch when Ignis stands and takes Noctis with him, helping settle him in Ignis’s arms like a new bride. In the week he’s been captured Noctis clearly hasn’t been well fed. He feels like spun glass to hold. “Somewhere well supplied, and discreet.”

Gladio and Prompto both make a face. It’s not exactly an easy combination to find.

“We need a hospital,” says Prompto.

“We can’t risk admitting him to one in the middle of the Empire,” Gladio says.

“Nah, but we can risk a little burglary,” Prompto replies. At the look everyone gives him he explains, “We can’t use magic and he’s not absorbing potions. We need a hell of a lot more than positive thinking to help him. Like painkillers, and stuff to stitch those cuts up.”

“And antibiotics,” Ignis agrees, nodding. He regards Prompto curiously. “Can you do it without being caught?”

“Leave it to me,” Prompto grins.

“I’ll go with him,” says Gladio.

“Good,” says Cor. “Ignis and I will get His Majesty to safety. There’s a ski resort about four hours’ drive from here, place called Ninguis. It’s technically Niflheim territory but it’s a Dollet-run town. It’ll be crowded but all for the better, we can blend in. The Regalia won’t stand out in that crowd.”

“There a clinic on the mountain?” Gladio guesses.

Cor nods. “But the hospital in town proper would be better stocked, and you’re less likely to be seen.”

“We can’t afford a room at Ninguis,” Ignis says.

“I have a cabin on the property,” says Cor. When they all look around at him, he gives a wry grin, nodding at Noctis, who is very still and quiet in Ignis’s arms, his eyes mostly closed. “Believe it or not, his old man was even more of a trouble magnet. Clarus, Cid, and I had quite a few safe houses between us at one time. The majority have been compromised as the Empire has grown, but I’m certain this one is still secure.”

Ignis has no doubt. Dollet Corp has held a monopoly on the energy industry throughout Eos since time immemorial, and is politically and financially powerful enough that the Empire is more of an irritating parasite than anything else. Niflheim can’t afford to make enemies of them, so any town where Dollet holds a strong presence is largely unencumbered by imperial rule.

“That’s a long way to go, though. He’s hurt pretty bad,” Prompto says, gnawing worriedly at his thumbnail as he looks Noctis over.

Gladio drops a hand onto Prompto’s shoulder. “He’s lasted this long, he can make it four more hours.”

Prompto’s needy eyes flicker to Ignis. “Iggy?”

Ignis says confidently, “He’ll be fine, Prompto. He’s back with us now.”

Prompto nods and grins, convinced despite the absurdity of the promise. Though he doesn’t often have cause to, Ignis is and always has been an exceptional liar.

 

*

 

Noctis does make it, loosely curled on his side under a blanket in the backseat of Cor’s big SUV. Ignis sits on the floor in front of him, resting his back against the door, and does his best to keep him still and comfortable. Every bump in the road makes Noctis’s breath hitch, every slight shift makes his brow furrow. Wretchedly, Ignis wishes that he would pass out, and during the fifty miles through roadwork driving on the ridged shoulder of the highway, Ignis prays for it, prays to gods he’s never believed in and some he’s only ever heard of as Noctis bites his lips bloody trying not to make any noise and loses the battle anyway, crushed little whimpers torn from his raw throat, and eventually quiet sobs and delirious pleas for his father over the worst of the rough road. Ignis’s prayers go unanswered; for once in his life, Noctis stubbornly remains conscious.

Evening falls and it starts to snow. Noctis’s temperature fluctuates wildly, pulling him in and out of delirium, and Cor exits onto a smoother road. An hour outside of Ninguis, Noctis’s breathing slows to something resembling normal, but it's questionable how lucid he is. He's watching Ignis thoughtfully with a heavy-lidded gaze. His eyes are fever bright. They're no longer red, but nor are they their natural blue, nor any other shade Ignis has ever seen. There aren’t words to describe them. They’re not of this world anymore, and yet Ignis is right here looking into them. It’s hard to comprehend color through everything else they hold. Ignis smoothes Noctis’s lank hair back, rests his palm over Noctis’s burning forehead and rubs his thumb in soothing circles over his temple.

“You should sleep if you can,” Ignis tells him. He doesn’t mean for his voice to come out the way it does, heavy with tenderness in a way that makes him feel exposed. “You need to rest.”

Noctis shakes his head minutely. Ignis can feel him in his chest and lungs and heart and bones, in his mind, in the inexorable, inexplicable connection they share, needy tendrils of power reaching tentatively and then surging possessively, helplessly yearning and just as helplessly hesitant, as though he might be denied this intimacy that's always been his to take. As though Ignis has ever been able to deny him anything. As though he's ever wanted to. Noctis is lying quietly, breathing deep and even. It’s frightening to see him look so calm and know that he’s so afraid.

Ignis tilts his head. Quietly, he asks, “What is it?”

Noctis's lips tremble and his fingers twitch on the seat where he's kept them curled protectively near his chest for hours, presumably an instinct to curl them into fists which backfires given the condition of the right one and drags a tortured gasp from him. The splinters of bamboo will have to be removed from beneath his fingernails as soon as they can pump him full of enough drugs not to feel it. Ignis hushes him tenderly, aching, completely useless as Noctis works through the pain and comes out the other side glassy and wild-eyed. 

He says, “Ignis, those men, the guards. Were they dead? Was that real?" His voice is a wavering, rapid ramble, coming faster as his distress rises. He blinks huge eyes, taking a shuddering breath. "It was hard to - I didn't know sometimes, what was real, but I think I - they were dead, weren't they? They were...wrong? On the ground? They didn't look like people anymore. The nightmares just disappear but they didn't. They didn't do what…"

Ignis’s head is pounding. The neat locked boxes in his mind are ready to burst open. The guards had been mutated, shriveled masses of tissue, twisted until they’d only vaguely resembled something that might have once been human. Ignis had already guessed what happened; nothing natural could have done that, and there had been only one person capable of magic in the room. Personally he’s of the impression that it’s no less than they deserved, but Noctis is a better person than Ignis is. It had been foolish to hope that he wouldn’t remember.

He doesn't know what to say. It should be so easy to lie but Ignis can't form the words. "Don't think about it right now," he says, pleads. "Noctis."

Noctis lets out a broken sob and shrinks away, shattered, upsetting his wounds as he tries to curl up and make himself smaller, panting with the pain. His lips pull and his teeth clench and his unearthly eyes fill, tendons in his neck straining, like he's holding back screams. He flinches when Ignis touches his bruised cheek, smearing the sweat and tears rolling down his face.

"Noct," Ignis says. 

"I didn’t know what I was doing. They were - " Noctis cradles his right hand protectively. "They hurt me.” His voice breaks on the word ‘hurt’ and Ignis’s vision whites out momentarily. Noctis says, “I couldn’t control it. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted them to stop. I - I killed them. I made them hurt too.”

“I know,” Ignis tells him. “It’s not your fault.”

“I wanted to. I liked - Ignis, I think,” Noctis starts. He swallows hard, nostrils flaring. His temperature is spiking again, pale face hot to the touch. Ignis has to put his ear nearly to Noctis’s lips to hear what he says next, his voice cracking, dark threads of self-loathing woven into the words, into the fluttering pulse of his magic. “I think there’s something wrong inside me.”

Ignis’s clenches his jaw and counts to ten, forces himself to take even breaths. He waits until he can control his expression before he looks up again, meeting Noctis’s miserable gaze. Noctis’s breath rattles in his lungs. Softly, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Ignis can’t respond to that and stay the person that he needs to be right now. There are few genuinely decent people out there, and none throughout the history of the world as inherently good as Noctis has always been, through everything life has put him through and taken from him, and they’ve made him hate himself. Rage is too tame of a word. Ignis wants to fight, to maim, to kill, to bring the bastards back to life just so he can tear them apart with his bare hands, to find Ardyn Izunia and break him piece by slow piece, to burn Niflheim and everyone in it to the ground.

He says, “Try and get some sleep, Noct,” and goes back to stroking his hair until Noctis’s eyes finally close and stay that way. When he glances up the window, Cor is watching him in the rearview mirror. Ignis pretends not to notice.

_tbc_


	4. Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ifrit informs Ardyn that the King of Light has been anointed.

**Chosen**

The Infernian is in a _mood_.

Half-awake, Ardyn sighs. He allows one lingering look at the unseemly hour showing on the clock on his bedside table before resigning himself to the inevitable, and slips from his comfortable bed to shrug into the most ostentatious of his fine silk dressing gowns, tying the belt into a lazy bow to assure the robe stays closed lest his penis offend the god waiting in his sitting room.

It’s so late, but he can’t deny that he’s terribly intrigued. In all the time they’ve known one another, Ifrit has never made a house call.

Ardyn yawns as he enters, sparing Ifrit a deep, slightly mocking bow on his way to the liquor cabinet. “Hello, darling,” he says. There’s a high velocity whistle and the wood in the fireplace mere feet to the right catches violently aflame in warning. Ardyn waits for it to settle into a merry crackle before tossing his guest a smile. “Ah, thank you, you’re very kind. It is a bit nippy in here, isn’t it. Can I get you a drink?”

From the armchair he’s taken as his throne, Ifrit stares back at him evenly. He has never lowered himself to a human disguise, but he has at least chosen to appear in a size suitable for Ardyn’s quaint manor home. His many jewels clink gently as he tilts his head, sharp tip of one horn just gliding the breath of empty air above the upholstery on the back of the chair. He has quite a lovely face, really, and an impressive form. Pity it houses such a foul personality.

In his own language, Ifrit says, “I am not here to exchange pleasantries with you, Accursed.”

“Ah, yes, because the competition for your pleasantries is so fierce,” Ardyn says in a dry voice. Sourly, he pours himself a finger further of scotch than he normally would at this time of night before returning the decanter to the cabinet, and takes a healthy drink before going on. “Might I ask, then, why you are here? Not that you aren’t welcome, of course.”

Ardyn smiles, and Ifrit’s lip curls. Bound as they are by a mutual goal, the roles of servant and master are quite unclear, and Ifrit’s distaste for Ardyn is rivaled only by Ardyn’s for him. Ifrit’s ancient eyes look Ardyn up and down, a derisive snort billowing steam into the air from his nostrils. It’s bad form, to be sure. Everything Ifrit is repulses Ardyn, but at least Ardyn still maintains a modicum of politeness. This is the problem with gods: no one ever taught them _manners._

Ifrit keeps his silence for a long time. Ardyn crosses over to his sofa and drapes himself across it, resting his head on the arm in the cradle of his bent elbow, setting his drink aside and letting his attention wander until Ifrit deigns to speak again.

“The Soul of Eos has awakened,” Ifrit says.

Ardyn blinks, lifting his head to study Ifrit’s solemn, lovely face. He sits up slowly, reaching for his drink on the coffee table. “The Crystal?”

Ifrit sneers, “Yes. The _Crystal_. The True King has been anointed.”

He has had centuries to prepare himself for this moment, but the anger that ignites is more powerful than Ardyn had expected it to be, kindled by a hurt that he thought long buried. He struggles to mask his reaction as he meets Ifrit’s gaze, and fails. He looks away, grip tight on the crystal glass in his hand, fine cracks splintering across the surface. It takes precious seconds to collect himself, but no more. This is, after all, what he’s been waiting for. “When?”

“Not long before I arrived.”

Ardyn rests his head back again, gaze unseeing on the vaulted ceiling. It’s not entirely surprising. War hero, beloved monarch, the picture of a white knight. His Royal Majesty certainly fits the bill, and has more than proven his worthiness. “A sound decision. He must be what — thirty-five, thirty-six now?”

Excitement wells within him, the likes of which he has not felt in too many years to count. Finally, after all this time—

“…is a child.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Ardyn says.

Ifrit raises a perfect eyebrow, a mannerism both so ethereal and so human that it takes Ardyn’s breath. In hindsight it is of little surprise that Ifrit had taken offense to the creation of mankind, poor copies of himself, the fairest and most beloved of Eos’s Astrals.

Ifrit says, “The King of the Stone. He does not yet wear the crown. He is a child.”

Ardyn sits up properly, terribly interested, curling his toes into the plush softness of the rug under his feet, possibilities branching out pleasantly in his mind. He raises a hand to his mouth and pinches his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. “The young prince, then.”

“Mm. The child has passed Bahamut’s trial.”

“He will have to survive the Trial of the Lucii, as well,” Ardyn says distractedly. That will be later, when the boy reaches maturity according to the old calendar, so seventeen and some months by the current one. A trial every heir of Lucis must pass in order to wield the power of the Ring and Royal Arms, but likely a foregone conclusion for this heir in particular. The Chosen.

“That is your concern,” says Ifrit. “He will survive all but you, Accursed.”

Ardyn hums his acknowledgement, busy weaving threads of fate in his immortal mind. This means more waiting, of course, the little prince will have to grow up, but Ardyn can be patient. All for the best, really. He does so love to take his time with important matters.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum. _Noctis._ What a name,” Ardyn murmurs. Ifrit is gone and so does not answer, but that’s all right. It long ago ceased to require a second party for Ardyn to carry on a conversation. “Noctis.” He laughs, his magic a surging, electric ache inside, and raises his glass to the chosen king.


End file.
